Johnny was on her the second she walked in. Maybe she shouldn't have decided to flaunt her new purchases right off the bat. She'd only done it to get a reaction out of him. He was hard to get to come out of his depressed state, so she pushed his buttons when she had the chance. But now, he was pinning her to the bed, the new t-shirt she'd bought discarded along with his belt. His hand was between her thighs, creeping up the insides as he began sucking hard on her neck.
And her body wasn't cooperating. She hated it when it happened. He was doing all the things right now that should have her keening and moaning, but she could only stare up at the ceiling and watch the breeze from the oscillating fan tickle the folds of the curtains. He didn't seem to notice though, until she shook her head, sitting up a bit.
The confusion flickered in his eyes, the darkness he sometimes wore when he performed was still smeared heavily on his eyelids. His hair was messy, his stare hazy. For as rough and loud and over the top he was in his daily life, singing a crude song or partying late with friends, he was quiet in bed. Most of the time, it was almost like he was just following her lead. She loved it. The rush of adrenaline when she pushed him just a little bit and he was powerless against her. She loved it, just like she loved him. But right now, she could have sworn that he was feeling just about as enthusiastic about it as she was.
She was pretty sure that in the next hour, Johnny was going to crash hard and fast, and it wasn't going to be a nice, dreamless sleep like she hoped it would be. He never seemed to have dreams when he passed out on pure alcohol and exhaustion, but the way his dark eyes were focusing and unfocusing made her think tonight wasn't going to be the night that any of his sleeping was going to be dreamless.
He wasn't hard, either, and she pressed a palm to his chest, easing him back a bit. He was a quick one to put on a good act, though, and ran his mouth up the length of her neck to her ear, trailing it with his tongue. His voice was like sandpaper, warm in her ear. The only thing was, his body wasn't lying and she didn't feel good about playing around anymore. "Go sleep, Johnny," she pleaded, pressing her palms to his hot face and feeling the bones that almost stuck out. Her thumbs brushed along his cheekbones, his lips. God, he was getting even thinner.
"Don't you want to?" he wheedled her.
"Not if you aren't really into it."
His head jerked a little. "Of course I am, baby," he insisted, but she shook her head.
"It's no fun for me if you're not really into it." Gently, she eased him back onto his side of the bed. He wasn't even reacting the way he should.
She could have sworn she saw relief flash in his expression, but maybe it was the poor light. The guilt that stabbed her might be from not accepting his advances, she thought, and rolled over to tug the throw off the chair and drag it up around his shoulders. It usually took very little coaxing to have him take advantage of her, he usually didn't decline an offer, but she wasn't going to treat him like some kind of cheap whore. He almost seemed to want her to, though, she had noticed it. Johnny would follow her around most of the time to work on songs, or read, or just be near her, and wouldn't move away when her hands wandered a little too close for the comfortable. He was almost like a dog, expecting his pats.
When he was home, that is. When he wasn't out doing whatever it was he was doing. The drugs were escalating; she could have done without the added worry of him overdosing on heroin or crack, or that new shit. The nights she tried to sleep and she was still awake when he came in, she'd hear him stumble in in his worn boots, thinking she was asleep. Sometimes his shirt would come off and if she peeked through her eyelids, she would catch sight of some mark or bruise that sometimes gave away where he'd been.
Julianna knew he did a few tricks to pay for the larger purchases, whether that was scoring some better drugs or paying the bills late, but they were very few and far between. Typically he resorted to easier ways to get extra cash. One morning she'd woken up to find half her earrings gone, and when she'd confronted him about it, he'd told her the previous night had been especially harsh for him and he'd sold them to feed his habit for the week. He earned a black eye for that one, even though he went down on her, tears in his eyes and apologizing after. God, she couldn't really hold it against him anyway. This was Johnny. Johnny, who refused to go to bed without at least tucking her in. Johnny, who would cook for her even when he was tired. Johnny, who shared his poetry and secrets with her before he drank himself into a stupor. Her Johnny, all shellshocked and hollowed from the last woman that had burned him alive.
His hand shot out from under the covers and grabbed onto her wrist as she got up. "Where are you going?"
"Gonna go make you a cup of tea, and then I'm gonna take a shower," she told him, gently pulling his fingers from her arm.
"Come back."
His voice was gentle, too quiet, and he pulled the blanket up to his shoulders again. If only she could help him better than this. Instead of tea, he got her old, dried out Vicodin left over from when she'd broken her ankle a year ago. As she dug out the medicine, his tousled blond head peered curiously at her over the pillow case.
"Take this," she ordered as she held the pills out in front of him with a glass of juice. He reached up and took both, swallowing them. "Why?"
"Vicodin, Johnny, stop doing crack so much if you wanna actually sleep at night."
"I'm not doing fucking crack," he sighed, lying back and closing his eyes. He lay an arm up and over his face, covering his eyes, shutting out the dimmed lights in the room.
She knew about the heroin by now, and she didn't know whether to believe anything he said about what he was putting in his body anymore. He didn't care. He didn't know why he should care, he told her one night, twirling her long curls with his fingers. He didn't care about himself anymore.
"Maybe I like it," he slurred as she lit a cigarette. "S'nice. Numb. S'how I want it."
He found a place to continue shooting up in L.A., when she was seeing her friend Leith. She would come home every once in a while to find him still out of his mind, eyes halfway to the back of his skull probably muttering at the ceiling. And she should stop it. She should force him out. Force him to get into the shower and yell at him. Instead she'd roll him on his side, make sure he wasn't going to choke on his own vomit, and leave him be. She'd learned by then that it was usually pointless trying to rouse him enough to do anything helpful around the house.
He didn't sleep, even with the Vicodin. She returned after her shower to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, staring hard at the ground. She watched him watching the floor until he brought his head up to look at her.
"Can you sleep now?" she asked.
"I'm not tired."
"Lay the fuck down."
Ignoring her, he stood up instead, and began pacing. It took everything in her to not reach out and slap him, yank his hair and tell him to get his head straight and go to bed already. She wasn't getting into this. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
"What's wrong with me?" he muttered. The pain and hate in his voice took her back for a moment, and when she didn't answer, he looked up at her. For a moment, his gaze struck her hard.
"Tell me. Tell me what's fucking wrong with me, huh? God damn it!"
"Stop, Johnny. Lay down."
"Not until you fucking tell me what's the matter with me. S'there something else that you think's wrong with me?"
It was easy to ignore his drunken pleas. Especially since he was asking the wrong woman. What a stupid, stupid man, as if she knew. As if it didn't irritate her constantly.
"Everything," she snapped back at him finally. "Everything is wrong with you. Now fuckin' lay down, will you? Or get the hell outta my house if you ain't even gonna sleep, god dammit!"
"Why are you always like this?" his voice grew louder, though not quite yelling yet. "Why can't you just tell me?"
"I dunno! Take it up with your mama or something! I don't care, Johnny! Fuck d'you expect me to say to you? You expect me to answer that?"
He leaned away from her, looking more confused and lost than before, and she almost felt sorry for having yelled, almost. Stepping across the room, she made a grab for his wrist, but he pulled sharply away.
"Don't touch me. Don't," he warned her.
"Oh my god, you're such a little bitch," she grumbled. "Lay the fuck down. Go to sleep."
"Leave me the fuck alone."
She'd just about had enough of his shit today. Her temper flared and she stormed across the floor.
He let out a strangled noise as her hand smacked him upside the head. He staggered backwards. "What—"
Another strike and the sharp sting was like fire on his cheek, his eye socket throbbing. "God dammit, shut the fuck up and lay the fuck down."
Falling silent, he obediently slunk off towards the bed and climbed into it, shaking. At least his voice would quit, finally.
Storming across the room, she snatched the cover and threw it over him, the blanket too, as he gingerly closed his eyes. Climbing into bed beside him, she sat quietly and eyed his movements, listened as he began the monotonous routine he completed whenever he couldn't quiet his mind. Counting almost silently to himself, he'd pretend each digit was something: a color, a name, something with meaning. And when he counted to six hundred, which is as far as he ever seemed to make it, he finally was forced asleep because his body couldn't fight it anymore. It got annoying some nights, but her own eyelids were heavy and she let him count.
"...thirty-five...six...thirty-sev..." and his quiet muttering faded into nothingness.